Please, Jim
by lifeinthemacro
Summary: John's not the only one grieving after Reichenbach. Strong language, MorMor.


Sebastian had seen Sherlock jump. He watched the man call his darling John and have that conversation with him.

Whilst he packed up his sniper, his hands were shaking. If Sherlock jumped then that only meant one thing. There was only one reason he'd really jump – he'd be able to think his way out of every other situation.

By the time he'd raced down the stairs, he felt sick. When he reached St Bart's he felt the tears pricking his eyes. He bit his lip hard to stop himself from crying and pushed past the paramedics milling around. He had to get to the roof. He had to confirm his worst fears.

He navigated the white, sterile corridors easily enough, and found himself climbing the steps to the roof in no time. He was shaking worse now, and really felt like throwing up. He'd heard the gun shot, he just hadn't wanted to admit it. He tripped on the stairs but instead of wasting time on getting up, he simply scrambled up the final steps on his hands and knees, anxiety starting to set in. He unsteadily got up, his heart racing madly, and his eyes scanned the rooftop desperately.

Then he saw it. A body. His body.

"Fuck!" he screamed in anguish and sprinted over. Within seconds he was on his knees at James Moriarty's side, no longer caring that he was sobbing. He hugged the cold man to him and ignored the blood on his clothes, for once. "Jim!" he cried, helplessly. "Jim! James!" He found himself unable to make any other words form except the name of the man he was clutching to him. He buried his head in the formerly pristine suit and wept into it, bawling like a child.

Later he'd look back on this day in disgust. Embarrassment. He wouldn't be able to look himself in a mirror until he justified this which, of course, he never did. He would never forgive himself for losing his conduct in the face of death.

Jim had spoken to him the night before, revealing that the next day he planned to kill himself. Sebastian had smirked, smiled, laughed it off and kissed him, before asking what he wanted for dinner. Obviously, he hadn't taken him seriously. Jim rarely made any sense when he spoke about 'work'. Or, rather, Sherlock Holmes.

Fucking Sherlock Holmes.

The man that Jim killed himself for. He'd never have fucking died for me, Sebastian thought bitterly as he still held the corpse close to him. That was Jim's real love affair: the one between him and Sherlock. Sebastian hated him. Both of them. James Moriarty and that fucking Sherlock Holmes. If Sherlock hadn't been dead already, he would have killed him three times over and still not conveyed his emotions properly. Nothing could show Sebastian's real emotions for Sherlock Holmes. No amount of paint or words or guns could ever reveal how he felt for that detective. How much pure, undiluted hatred he had for that man.

"Jim," he whispered, the tears in his eyes starting to abate. He was beginning to see sense. Well, as much sense as a man who's just seen the only person he loved commit suicide can.

"Fuck," he gasped, shivering with grief. Shivering with pent up fucking emotion and the overwhelming feeling of failure and rejection.

If Jim had really, truly been happy with Sebastian, he wouldn't have killed himself. If he'd really loved him like he said, then he wouldn't have left him. Sebastian had let him down, and to pay for this he'd lost the only person he'd ever loved.

"Jim, please," he begged, his voice hoarse and muffled with tears. He nuzzled Jim's neck, searching in vain for any kind of reaction. Even a pulse. But there was nothing. Only the clammy coldness of Jim's skin, pale and waxy.

"Please," he prayed. "Please come back. Jim, please. I love you." He rarely said it. He rarely said it to his face anyway. "I love you." It felt like he was admitting it to himself. Finally realising he really did love the fucking bastard. That brilliant psychopath.

"Jim…." He knew he should leave. He wasn't helping himself by staying, and he knew that, but he just couldn't drag himself away. He had to stay just a little longer. Then he'd go. He'd carry on Jim's work and move out and never love again and everything would be _okay_. Everything would be _fine._ Everything would be _good._

It had to be.

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><p><strong>AN**

So what do you think? :)

I know it's angsty but whatever. I like it.

As always, critique would be adored, as would any other kind of review.

Thanks for reading and feel free to message me if you just want a chat ^^

Rhi


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